Scenes from a Marriage
by hiddenhibernian
Summary: They say love isn't about what you say, it's what you do. If you see it that way, Hermione doesn't have any reason to complain.
1. Part I

**Huge thanks to my wonderful beta,** **WSquared, for all the ideas and encouragement. Any remaining mistakes are my own. This was originally written for the 2015 DarkArts DarkFest on LiveJournal.**

 **With apologies to Ingmar Bergman for borrowing his title.**

* * *

 **Part I**

 **-oOo-**

Malfoys took the long view, everyone knew that.

Nevertheless, it took Hermione quite a while to realise how patient they were in pursuit of their aims. She was incredulous when Draco told her how long he'd been watching her and waiting – ever since they'd both joined the Ministry, just after they finally graduated from Hogwarts the year after the war.

"But that was nine years ago! I didn't – I can't even remember speaking to you during eighth year. Except to dock points, I suppose." As far as Hermione could remember, Draco had spent the year under a sullen cloud, refusing to accept that he owed his freedom and continued prosperity to Harry.

"Don't remind me," winced the older and infinitely more attractive version of the petulant boy she'd dismissed as irrelevant back then. "If I'd had a bit more cop-on just after the war, it mightn't have taken three years just to persuade you we could have a civilised conversation."

"Well, I did have to get Ron out of my system first, so it was probably just as well," Hermione admitted.

In the end, the difficulty hadn't been so much deciding that they'd be better off as friends but working out how to actually be friends again. Hermione giving Draco Malfoy the time of the day would not have helped in that process.

Even years after he'd abandoned any illusions of being attracted to Hermione, Ron's reaction to Draco and Hermione being linked had been bad enough. That much she expected; Ron wasn't exactly a riddle wrapped in an enigma.

Harry's reaction, however, surprised her. There wasn't any posturing about how all Malfoys are evil, as she'd half expected. He just gave her a long, measured look before appearing to pick his words with extreme care. "Watch what you're about, Hermione."

"What do you mean?" she asked, forcing him to spell it out. It may be obvious to anyone with more than two brain cells to rub together what Harry meant, but she wasn't going to let him get away with ominous hints.

"I know he wants you to think he's just like anyone else, that he's learnt from the war and everything. But he is still a Malfoy. His family has spent centuries doing their best to wipe out people like you. I'm not sure you can change all that in one go."

That was more measured than she'd expected.

"Listen, I'm not saying we're love's young dream, or anything. It's just – I like him. He's interesting. And I really think he has changed," Hermione said.

"I think so too," Harry admitted. "I'm just not sure what he's changed into."

Hermione didn't pay much attention to his words. Harry had become a vastly superior judge of character than he used to be since the war, but she rather suspected he was suffering from the same Auror overexposure to shady characters that had driven Mad-Eye Moody to regard perfectly innocent objects with distrust. Chasing Dark wizards for a living seemed to affect even the staidest character, and Harry had better reason than most to be paranoid.

Hermione wasn't stupid, though. The moment Malfoy showed any trace of his former pureblood nonsense, he'd be history.

* * *

Harry didn't mention his concerns again, and Hermione drifted slowly from seeing Draco occasionally when she had nothing more interesting to do, to not being able to imagine her life without him.

He even went on the annual Granger family trip to the Yorkshire dales, a truly heroic effort given Hermione's dad's insistence on quoting any literary references vaguely applicable to their location out loud. It wasn't that Hermione didn't like _Wuthering Heights_ ; she just didn't see any reason to read half a chapter out loud just because they were within fifty miles of a village that may have served as inspiration for Brontë. Draco bore with it magnificently, however.

After that, Draco's proposal seemed like a foregone conclusion, but he still managed to take her by surprise. It was one of her favourite things about him.

"What about it, Granger?" he asked when they were lying in bed with the Sunday papers, surrounded by several batches of cold cups of tea Summoned from the kitchen. Hermione hadn't moved for the last hour, except for turning the page, and the pins and needles in her left leg were getting a bit annoying. She couldn't be arsed to do anything about it though – it was that kind of Sunday. Her favourite kind.

"What about what?" she asked absently as she was scanning an article about import legislation to see if the Muggles had any inventive measures the wizarding world could copy. After all those years, the Department of International Magical Cooperation was still obsessed with cauldron thickness.

"Getting married. My mother keeps asking when I'll stop living in sin."

"Where did this come from? Since when do you care what your mother thinks?" Hermione asked, too gobsmacked to remember to be polite about it.

"Well, I care, too. I'm a traditional kind of guy, in case you hadn't noticed."

Hermione looked around at the ultra-modern flat with a profusion of the latest Muggle-magical gadgets with an expression of scepticism. Much to her amusement, Draco had embraced the post-war trend of adapting Muggle technical advances for the magical world. Sadly, it meant that he no longer was confused by the moving pictures on her Muggle TV. Watching him give it a wide berth whenever he came into her apartment had entertained her for years.

"It's all about the substance, not the appearance. Malfoys always lead fashion. Being modern is fashionable now, so I have modern things," Draco explained patiently.

"Some people would call it 'waking up and realising it's not the 19th century anymore'," Hermione muttered, but Draco ignored the familiar complaint.

"Being married matters. You're … important to me, so I'd prefer to be married. If it's all the same to you," he continued.

Hermione was quite sure Draco's emotional range vastly exceeded a teaspoon, but she couldn't help finding it adorable how tongue-tied he got when trying to say something loving.

It was probably a character flaw.

"No, it's not all the same to me. I'd love to get married to you," she said and realised it was quite true, though she'd never really entertained the prospect before. There would be trouble, of course: Draco's father still preferred to pretend she didn't exist, and many of Hermione's friends were still incapable of seeing anything other than their childhood nemesis when they looked at Draco.

None of that mattered to her – she reminded herself of the dull life she'd be living if she were concerned with winning the approval of others all of the time. She finally let her delight bubble to the surface and kissed Draco, who kissed her back with a vengeance, sweeping the clutter of their breakfast in bed aside with the insouciance of someone who knew a house-elf would be around to clean it up later.

"Ouch! My leg!" Hermione objected, but she was ignored. She didn't bother protesting after that, Draco being quite proficient at expressing himself non-verbally.

* * *

There were snowflakes in the air, carried on the edge of the freezing wind. December shoppers looked up in delight when they noticed, pointing and laughing at the reminder of Christmas despite the biting chill. Hermione barely noticed the cold, or the passers-by, and they were halfway to the Apparition point down an abandoned alley when she realised she'd forgotten to put her gloves on. The barely-there feeling of her frozen fingers fit right in with the stone-cold pit in her stomach.

Draco hadn't said anything since they'd left the consulting Healer's office. Nothing at all.

Unlike her Gryffindor friends, he always seemed to know when talking would only make things worse. Or maybe he was as shocked as she was; she hadn't been able to look at him since the freckly, pug-nosed Healer had handed down the verdict.

Infertile, that's what she was. Unable to even conceive a child, never mind bearing it. Apparently, the Healers could detect it was due to Dark magic, while being unable to put a name on the spell. Hermine didn't waste any time wondering who'd cast it – it must have been Bellatrix. Not even Voldemort had hated her more than Bellatrix, and Hermione bore the scars to show it. She wondered absently if there was a track of destruction inside her, charred remains where her reproductive organs once had been.

She hadn't asked. There wasn't any point – the Healer had made it very clear there was no way to reverse the damage. Hermione had to admit the Healer handled it well; she'd stopped short of implying Hermione and Draco were anything other than your run-of-the-mill patients, while explaining that the effects of the curse were permanent no matter how much magic and money you threw at them.

That was it, then – no point trying anymore, waiting anxiously month after month for news that would never come.

The chill seemed to have spread out to her arms now; Hermione was barely able to lift them to take out her wand in order to Apparate home. She swept her cloak around her in a vain effort to stave off the cold, but the heavy velvet folds seemed as flimsy as a spider's web.

Their house was dark and quiet. _Like a tomb_ , she thought. Somehow the idea made a wild laughter bubble up from a dark place inside her. It came pouring out when she couldn't contain it anymore; a wild, cackling sound, and Hermione froze when she remembered where she'd heard it before.

It was the laughter of Bellatrix Lestrange, once she had gone utterly and irrevocably mad. The last time Hermione had heard her laugh must have been just after she'd cast the curse that had ripped Hermione's dreams of ever having children apart. Hermione couldn't remember the curse, but it was hardly surprising – she hadn't exactly been focusing on spell taxonomy in the thick of the battle.

"Sorry," Hermione mumbled to Draco. The fog had lifted a little and she was able to feel sorry for him, too, now. He'd also been swept up in this through no fault of his own – not even Ron could blame him for having a mad aunt. "I'm sorry this happened to you. I know how much it means to you –" She made a sweeping gesture to indicate his heritage: the Malfoy heirlooms in their hall – portraits and exquisite furniture and magical knick-knacks – and instantly regretted putting her regrets into words.

It wasn't their way to spell things out.

They talked about difficult things by seemingly unrelated gestures, like Draco unerringly bringing home lovely bouquets of fragrant lilies every time her period had arrived despite Hermione desperately hoping it wouldn't, this time. It was incomprehensible to demonstrative lovers like Ginny and Harry, but it worked for them. Malfoys preferred to pretend they didn't have any feelings, and Hermione had learnt to appreciate Draco as he was rather than wishing he was different. It kept life interesting.

Acknowledging openly that there would be no Malfoy heir, that the line would become extinct with Draco was like hurling a hand grenade into the church summer fête and expect the vicar to continue to discuss flower arrangements as if nothing had happened.

Unlike her husband, Hermione was prone to talking when she was uneasy. "I keep thinking about it – I can't remember when it happened, but it must have been Bellatrix. It must have – I remember Sirius talking about Black family spells, and how they had their own ways of ensuring 'undesirables' didn't breed." It seemed a lifetime ago, the cavernous kitchen with the manky smell of disuse and mould still lurking in the corners, and Sirius holding court at the table. Some of his tales she hadn't fully understood until much later, when she had seen more death and destruction that she'd ever wanted.

There seemed to be a streak of madness as deep as the river Thames running through the Blacks, and it had found expression in more twisted curses than Hermione could remember. Thank God she hadn't married a Black – she wasn't sure she could have endured bearing the name of the woman who'd done this to her.

To them; it wasn't just about her, she remembered, and flung her arms around Draco in a vain attempt to stave off the cold that had crept into her bones.

She felt a bit less like a statue of ice and more like a human when she was wrapped in Draco's arms. When she shifted a little after a long moment, she happened to catch a glance of him through the enormous, gilded antique mirror he'd insisted they put into the foyer. Malfoys didn't buy furniture, they inherited it.

The agony on his face was unbearable. She'd seen people going to their deaths looking less pained. His eyes were those of a wild thing caught in a trap; they didn't seem to belong in their ornately decorated hall.

"Oh, Draco," she whispered, and his grip tightened until she almost couldn't breathe.

* * *

 **The second and final part will follow next week.**


	2. Part II

**Part II**

 **-oOo-**

"By declaring for Runcorn, you'll effectively disarm him. He won't be able to do anything as long as you're supporting him in public, and the best thing is that he'll never suspect you're not being honest." Draco leaned back, twirling his glass of Bordeaux and surveying the scraps of their sumptuous dinner littering the crisp linen tablecloth. It had some stains from when Hermione had taken exception to Draco's description of the latest Head of the Department of Mysteries and accidentally knocked over her glass, and somehow breadcrumbs seemed to be everywhere.

They really shouldn't eat so much bread, Hermione reflected absently as she straightened up her cutlery. In middle age, excess weight seemed to stick on you like particularly stubborn stains.

"Don't try to buy yourself time," Draco said, as cocksure as ever. She didn't even find it annoying anymore. "You know I'm right."

"I do," Hermione admitted. "That's not what I'm trying to figure out."

"What is it then?" Draco cast around for more wine. He eventually had to settle for summoning a fresh bottle after establishing that all the open ones were empty.

"It just seems very familiar. I'm sure I've heard you suggest the same thing before. Keep your enemies closer, and all that."

Draco's cheeks were a little flushed and he was just a shade inebriated, but at her words he suddenly looked sharper. "Well, it's hardly a revolutionary approach," he said carefully, grey eyes examining her.

"No." Hermione struggled to articulate her thoughts. "It's just that it reminds me of something..."

They moved on to coffee and abandoned the subject, to Draco's apparent relief.

Much later, as she was lying in bed debating whether it was worth the effort to summon a glass of water, or if she'd just take her chances and risk a headache the following day, that it came to her. Draco had done the exact same thing with the Weasleys many years ago, once Ron calmed down a bit and accepted that Hermione wasn't going to let him dictate her love life.

As usual, the Weasleys had been arguing about something and Draco had stepped right into it. That time, it had been about whether Ron and George ought to invest some of the proceeds from Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes in Charlie's attempt to set up a dragon reserve in Devon. Ron had resisted, and it was only when Draco rediscovered his long-lost love for dragons and wrote a cheque for twice the amount Charlie had been looking for from his brothers that everyone started turning up for Sunday lunch again.

The dragon venture had inevitably failed, but Draco earned himself a Weasley jumper every Christmas.

It was just the same as Runcorn's bid for Head of Magical Law Enforcement. Swoop in, save the day and the lucky recipient wouldn't see any reason to doubt you. Machiavelli had probably covered it in depth, Hermione mused, as she decided that she was just too comfy to stir.

She was half asleep when it occurred to her that the beginnings of her relationship with Draco were quite similar, too. At the time, she'd been at a loose end, unsure what to do with her career and stifled by her wizarding friends. They all seemed to think she was the same person as just after the war, even if she was a decade older. Draco had shown her a different way, and to everyone's dismay she'd fallen into his arms at the same time.

It was different, though – they loved each other. No matter how much Draco prided himself on planning every part of his life, he couldn't control love.

On that comforting thought Hermione sailed into her dreams riding on a giant pumpkin unicorn, and by morning she'd forgotten all about it.

* * *

Hermione had lost count of how many gatherings she'd left to make a point, or how many Ministry functions she'd swept out of when it had been made clear that her 'plus one' invitation most definitely didn't include former Death Eaters. In the early years, she had to defend Draco's presence more often than not.

He handled it beautifully, of course – not as much as a twitch of his eyebrow ever betrayed that Draco cared at all about how his presence was perceived. It came with being a Malfoy; they were so convinced they were superior to everyone else that it never occurred to them to question it. Other people may be temporarily misinformed, but they'd be put right momentarily.

Slowly, the pendulum swung back and the lustre of the Malfoy name returned. It probably helped that they'd held on to their fortune through it all – Hermione was continuously surprised at the difference it made to have a stupendous amount of money at your disposal. About fifteen years after the war, the Malfoys were back to where they started, the Voldemort interlude seemingly forgotten.

Hermione was equally relieved and aggrieved.

There was no denying it made her life easier not to have to defend her choice of partner at every turn, not to mention that Draco technically had been underage when he joined the Death Eaters and shouldn't be held responsible for the choices he'd made under duress at sixteen.

Still, it rankled that the average wizard's memory was so short. Harry was still hailed as a hero in the wizarding world, but the memories of who'd been fighting next to Voldemort were starting to dim. If people forgot about Draco's war record so quickly, what did it mean for the die-hard Death Eaters like Yaxley – were their transgressions also going to be disregarded? The general population certainly was stupid enough for it to be a possibility.

Despite her jaundiced view of her fellow wizards, Hermione was unpleasantly surprised when she was met with open blood prejudice for the first time since she was nineteen.

The implacable face of the Master of Ceremonies at the Grand Carnival Ball in the Wizarding Assembly rooms in Venice didn't leave any room for ambiguity. He was definitely not going to let her in, despite her impeccable costume.

She'd felt ridiculous when she'd unpacked it, eyeing the several petticoats with suspicion, but Draco assured her that dressing like you were a lady-in-waiting to Marie-Antoinette was perfectly normal for a masquerade ball in Venice. He'd been right, of course – several other witches were wearing similar dresses, but none were as nice as her green silk gown. You could always trust Draco to get matters of dress perfectly right.

"What appears to be the problem?" Hermione asked in her best icy voice, the one that always made Ron confess whatever idiocy he'd been planning next.

It didn't work on the Master of Ceremonies, however. "I'm afraid the Signora can't be admitted," he pronounced, the slight curl to his upper lip communicating his disdain perfectly. "I believe the Muggles arrange similar festivities, however – perhaps those would be more suitable for the lady?"

Hermione's shock only lasted for a few seconds, before weariness set in. "Oh, for God's sake," she muttered. "Don't worry, I won't sully your hallowed halls with my inferior blood. Come on, Draco. Let's go somewhere they haven't developed complete amnesia about recent history." She put her arm in Draco's, but rather than sweeping her with him in one of his grand exits he seemed rooted to the floor.

"I don't think you're quite aware of who you're dealing with," Draco said. It may not sound particularly threatening, but Hermione knew her husband. You could only just see it beneath his elaborate mask, but the way the veins in his temple were throbbing had her reaching for her wand.

"This is Madam Granger-Malfoy," Draco continued with deadly calm. "Would you like to revise your decision, or shall I have to get my wand out?" Somehow, he managed to get his cloak to billow, even though the magnificently carved doors were firmly closed against the cold February wind outside. He must have picked that up from Snape.

Unfortunately the Master of Ceremonies chose not to avail of the first option offered by Draco. If he had, the walls of the Assembly rooms would not have acquired several interesting scrape marks, and an international incident requiring the involvement of scores of officials and months of smoothing things over could have been avoided.

It was all quite unfortunate, and Hermione made her disapproval clear despite her secret tinge of pleasure at seeing Draco defending her honour.

She was quite capable of fighting her own battles, but there was something about her husband showing the whole world what went on beneath that icy surface that made up for the way he preferred to pretend he had no feelings at all most of the time. For someone raised on hugs and frequent 'I love you'-s, it was reassuring to be reminded that wasn't true at all.

Draco had married her, the ultimate proof that love had transcended his old Death Eater ideals, but an occasional reminder that he still felt the same way didn't hurt.

* * *

"Of course you should." Draco buttered his second slice of toast with apparent unconcern, leaving Hermione gaping. It was so like him to treat the momentous matter of whether she should stand in the Wizengamot elections as a matter of course. Sometimes, she suspected she'd never understand the Malfoy way of looking at life.

"But – just think about the papers! They'd rake up everything from the war again – " She'd been prepared to hotly defend her decision to stand, but Draco's unexpected reaction had her fumbling for all the reasons she shouldn't, instead.

"So let them – it's hardly going to be news to anyone past the age of twenty." He glanced down at his faded Dark Mark, which looked more like misplaced stubble than the ensign of evil these days. "I'll dig out my old mask and hood to scare your opponents witless, if you like."

"Very funny," Hermione muttered, but she couldn't help smiling. "I think I'd rather have you design my election posters instead."

* * *

She won, of course. Draco didn't seem very surprised, not even when she was appointed Minister of Magic at the tender age of fifty-nine. Of all the things about him, Hermione decided that she most liked his unshakeable belief in her ability to do absolutely anything.

* * *

"You can come in now, Mr Malfoy." Like most of her colleagues the Healer looked impossibly young to Draco. She was doing her best to act professionally, but he could tell she was discomfited by her patient's fame. Everyone in the wizarding world recognised Hermione Granger-Malfoy, despite her having eventually retired a decade ago.

The fragile husk of a woman on the hospital bed bore little resemblance to the unstoppable force Draco had spent the better part of his life with. There wasn't much of Hermione there – not anymore. The Healers had explained him at length how they could keep her alive for a little longer, but that her mind already had moved on.

This was goodbye.

"My love," he whispered, leaning over the bed to let his finger follow the curve of Hermione's cheekbone down towards her firm jawline; so unlike the delicate features of his mother.

Blood always showed.

Hermione stirred uneasily, eyelids fluttering in the throes of some fretful dream on the threshold between life and death. She was beyond his reach now, beyond anything this world could throw at her. Regardless, despite being alone with an unconscious woman, Draco was far too practised to let his mask slip.

He'd be the devoted husband until the very end, and then – Then, he'd finish what he'd started.

It had been obvious from the beginning that Hermione would demand love if she were to enter into any sort of relationship with him. He'd carefully cultivated the right mix of reserve and affection to draw her in. Once Draco had overcome her initial wariness, she'd never once suspected she wasn't getting the real deal. It made little difference to Draco; he'd been raised to do what was necessary to keep the Malfoys in their rightful position, and once he'd decided marrying the Mudblood was the best way forward, he hadn't wavered in his purpose.

He was so close now to bringing himself home, so very close...

* * *

Potter's threat had come at the worst possible moment, just when Draco and Hermione had announced their engagement. The wizarding press was working double-time to keep up with the flurry of "I-told-you-so"s and sage comments that the world was going to the dogs with war heroines wedding former Death Eaters. Draco had triple-warded his office at the Ministry to fend off reporters who managed to bribe their way past the guards.

Potter slipped in quietly, giving off the infuriating impression that centuries of the Malfoys' cumulative warding skills had been no match for him.

Prick.

"To what do I owe the unexpected pleasure of your company, Potter?"

Showing the verbal dexterity of a hamster, Potter refused to be drawn in by Draco's opening gambit. "To your recent announcement, of course."

"Are you offering your felicitations?" Draco asked, wondering whether he'd need to translate into words with less than three syllables.

"No. Quite the opposite, in fact," Potter said.

"Interesting," Draco offered, biding his time, waiting to see what Potter would do next.

"We both know I don't trust you worth a damn." Potter obligingly jumped straight to the matter at hand. "I don't believe you're really in love with Hermione any more than I believe the Falmouth Falcons will win the league this year, and there's nothing you can say that'll change my mind."

"We seem to find ourselves at an impasse," Draco drawled. "May I ask if you've shared your convictions with my fiancée?"

Potter looked pained. "She thinks the sun shines out of your arse, as you're well aware. There's no point saying anything to her."

"So am I permitted to know the purpose of your visit today? Or is it merely a social call?" Draco wanted to smile – The-Boy-Who-Annoyed was beaten and he knew it.

"I came up with an alternative solution." Potter smirked and Draco felt the first inkling of disquiet. "I hope I'm wrong about you, in which case you've nothing to fear. Just in case I'm not, though, I figured I'd better tell you."

Draco forced himself to sit absolutely still – only fools rushed in before they knew what they were facing.

"If you do anything to harm Hermione, you will die," Potter continued, looking unreasonably cheered by the prospect.

"Is that a threat?" Draco asked, finding his throat uncomfortably dry. Harry Potter was a political force to be reckoned with in the wizarding world, quite apart from his considerable (yet undeserved) magical abilities.

"No, it's a statement of fact. Ron and I put some blood wards on you yesterday. "

"What?" Draco was halfway out of his seat with his wand pointed at Potter's throat when reason prevailed. You should _never_ kill people in your own office.

Potter looked entirely unperturbed, damn him. "It's done already, so there's nothing you can do. Guess you should have paid more attention to the Healer last time you went to St Mungo's."

There had been blood tests, Draco remembered. He'd been too busy being in agony to pay much attention to who was taking them, or to what purpose. It was just typical of a half-blood like Potter to ignore the ancient convention of treating the only wizarding hospital as a neutral zone.

"Lay a finger on Hermione and you'll drop down dead. Don't worry, it applies if you get someone else to do your dirty work for you, too," Potter said, and Draco hated him just a little bit more.

He got Potter out of his office as quickly as possible, to reconsider his position. It had seemed so straightforward: he'd use Hermione to re-establish his name, and then discretely get rid of her afterwards. Draco hadn't counted on having his options closed off by Potter, of all people. Upon reflection, however, he decided that Granger was still his best bet for turning the Malfoy fortunes around. He couldn't afford to hang around waiting for a better option that might never show up.

For better or worse, he'd go through with it.

* * *

When he'd made the decision not to call off the wedding so many years ago, Draco had hardly envisaged they'd still be married some six decades later. He'd been extremely foolish not to take Hermione's Muggle superstitions into account. It turned out she was Catholic, whatever that meant, so she didn't believe in divorce.

Malfoys, unfortunately, didn't believe in begetting heirs outside of wedlock.

Still, all hope wasn't lost. Draco was only ninety-five; he should still be able to father a son. He'd just have to make sure to marry a pure-blood. This time, there would be no need for infertility charms to ensure the bloodline wasn't polluted.

He let his hand brush over Hermione's still-open eyelids, the minute touch enough to close them once and for all, and turned away from the still-warm corpse. She'd served her purpose, and served it well – Hermione's rise to power had been beyond his wildest dreams, and she'd pulled her husband up with her. Draco Malfoy, the last of his name, was once again perched comfortably at the top of the wizarding world.

It would not be difficult to find an ambitious young thing who'd be willing to father his children. He'd just have to play the mourning widower for a few months first, ride out the inevitable scandal and lay on the fertility charms. Potter would see who was laughing then.

Malfoys played the long game, and they always won.

Draco found himself staring into shop window a few streets away from the hospital. He couldn't quite remember how he got there, or why he decided to walk instead of Apparating. It must be the shock of finally getting what he'd wanted after all those years.

It was only then he noticed there was something wet on his cheeks. Absentmindedly, he brushed it away before turning around to Apparate to the Manor, to plot the next step in his plan.

* * *

Roy Jenkins didn't know the elderly toff who spent ten minutes staring into his shop window from Adam, but he knew the look on his face. His nana had looked the same the day his granda died - like the sky had fallen down around his ears, or like something had broken inside her and couldn't be fixed. Must be weird, spending your whole life with someone and then they're suddenly gone. His girlfriend had said something similar once, how only those you love have the power to destroy you.

They were some proper deep thoughts - Roy was almost impressed with himself, philosophising while cleaning the cash register. He was going to pop out to see if the old gent was all right, maybe offer him a cup of tea, but the next time he looked up the man was gone.

Roy looked up and down the street, but there was no sign of him. It was almost like he'd disappeared into thin air.

 **-oO THE END Oo-**

* * *

 ** **Reviews are much appreciated and any constructive criticism is most welcome. Anything you want to share will help me write a better story the next time.** **


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